Wanhua's Lungshan Temple

On an overcast morning I left my friend's apartment and walked
south into Wanhua. For much of Taipei's history, Wanhua was the
city's commercial heart. But the center of gravity has shifted;
these days it is a blue-collar district dotted with historical
buildings.

My objective was Lungshan Temple, one of Taiwan's most famous
places of worship. After a quick look at the inner sanctum and a
circuit of its compound, I decided that Lungshan's architecture was
less interesting than the people it attracted. The forecourt seemed
to be populated by cripples, retardates, drunks and beggars.
Inside, high school students took snapshots of each other, while
worshipers -- mostly middle-aged women who wore black robes over
their dresses -- knelt, prayed, stood up, then knelt and prayed
some more.

I saw no other Westerners, even though Lungshan Temple is an
attraction mentioned in English-language leaflets and marked on
every tourist map. It never ceases to amaze me that droves of
Europeans and North Americans visit mainland China and Japan, but
bypass Taiwan. The temples of Kyoto and Nikko receive far more
foreign visitors than those in Tainan, where religion seems more
heartfelt. Mount Fuji is climbed by far more Westerners than
Taiwan's higher and more beautiful Jade Mountain. Language is no
greater an obstacle in Taiwan than in Japan. (It has to be said,
however, that the Japanese authorities do use a standard
romanization system for street names, and seem to have signs
proofread before putting them in place: Taiwan does neither) Japan
is perceived to be a safe and orderly society, but Taiwan has never
acquired a reputation for violence. Traveling around Taiwan is
cheaper than visiting Japan or Hong Kong, and scarcely more
expensive than the more developed parts of the mainland. Despite
this -- and the efforts of the Tourism Bureau -- non-Asian tourists
are conspicuous only by their absence.

Perhaps because I was the only foreigner around, a filthy
vagabond who reeked of rice wine began following me around. I
decided to move onto another temple in the neighborhood, a dank
building dedicated to the god King Chingshan. Legend has it that,
more than a century and a half ago, a group of fishermen carrying
the king's image found themselves unable to drag it beyond this
point. By throwing prognostication blocks they divined that the
king wanted to stay there, so money was collected and the shrine
built.

The tourist leaflet in my hands implied that this is a temple of
significance, but I saw nothing I had not encountered elsewhere:
statues of penny-dreadful demons with bug eyes and collar-length
eyebrows; helixes of oily smoke slowly uncoiling from votive
candles; altars cluttered with offerings of near-rotten fruit and
wilting flowers.

Above each flight of stairs there was a list of the gods and
deities which could be found on the next level. I worked my way
upward, and from the fourth floor -- the top -- gazed out at the
nearby buildings. Looking at these grimy, densely-packed blocks, it
struck me then what troglodyte lives many Taiwanese lead: after
work, retreating behind burglar bars into cramped dwellings where
windows are closed for months on end to keep out heat, noise and
dust.

Feeling claustrophobic and having inhaled suffocating quantities
of incense smoke, I noticed a growing patch of blue in the sky, and
decided to get out of the city. I boarded a bus heading northward
over the mountains. The first stretch was an dull grind through the
downtown and on past Ming Chuan University, a school named for a
nineteenth-century governor remembered for his progressive
policies. Liu Ming-chuan planned Taiwan's first railroad (it linked
Keelung, Taipei and Hsinchu); developed the island's coal mines;
established the first electricity grid in the Chinese empire;
reformed the tax system; attacked corruption; and encouraged the
slaughter of aborigines so Han settlers could take their land.

Then we climbed -- the mountains which ring Taipei are almost as
tall as Scotland's -- and passed mansions, churches and army bases
before entering Yangmingshan National Park. It is the smallest of
Taiwan's national parks, and certainly the most visited, but quite
lovely. The road twisted between steep, grass-covered mountains.
Almost too quickly for me to notice, a fumarole -- a steam-belching
gash big enough to swallow an apartment block -- appeared on the
right. Hiking trails crossed the road. I wanted to get off and
explore. Then all too soon we began our descent towards the ocean.
Winding down past vegetable patches and picturesque stone houses,
we approached Chinshan.

Chinshan does not quite touch the coast, but nothing else about
the town surprised me. Low-rise and sprawling, its neighborhoods
separated by paddy fields, it has a few temples, a lively market,
the usual random mix of old and new houses, plus a hillside
cemetery crowded with garish graves. The air was clean and the
people friendly. I liked the place immediately, but left within an
hour to round the cape that is Taiwan's most northerly point.

The bus traveled within spitting distance of the surf; the
greenness of the land, the rocky beach and the strong wind reminded
me of Ulster. After Sanchih, whose most famous son is former
President Lee Teng-hui, we approached bustling Tamsui. The bus
slowed as the traffic became heavier; my escape from the city had
been brief, but wonderful.